


repercussions of necromancy

by archeryian



Series: hills of loss and longing [2]
Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-CHOG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25587469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archeryian/pseuds/archeryian
Summary: Three figures were dragged before the disbelieving eyes of the London Enclave: weeping Grace, a wide-eyed black haired boy she assumed was Jesse Blackthorn, and Alastair.As accusations of necromancy and violations of mandate and natural law were flung around the room, her brother hardly said a word in his defense.It took everything in Cordelia not be sick on the tiled floor.A string of Nephilim murders and the resurrection of Jesse Blackthorn wreck the Carstairs family.
Relationships: Cordelia Carstairs/James Herondale, Cordelia Carstairs/Matthew Fairchild
Series: hills of loss and longing [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1863979
Comments: 19
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is a companion piece to my other fic, non sum qualis eram, but you don't have to read that to read this one (if anything that one's more of a sequel to this?? idk i don't write in order) 
> 
> also if you haven't read the official synopsis for Chain of Iron you absolutely should

“How did you sleep?”

“I slept well,” Cordelia said to James, sinking into the dining room chair across from him. The morning light shined in from the window behind him, giving him an ethereal look. She fought the urge to check her hair. “And yourself?”

“Good, very good.”

She shifted in her seat. “That’s good.”

“Yes.” James fiddled with the red leather bound book he’d been reading before Cordelia had descended the stairs.

He had once claimed he would be better breakfast-table company than her brother, and while James _was_ much more chipper than Alastair in the morning, it was far from a party.

Most days, it was awkward. They were still adjusting to the complications of their circumstances. The biggest complication walked into the room with Cordelia’s breakfast.

“Good morning, Risa.”

“You slept in later than usual,” was her brisk reply in Persian. Cordelia smiled as she looked down at the _barbari_ flat bread and assorted fruits.

Risa went back into the kitchen and came out with the tea tray. Cordelia sat up eagerly; she could smell the familiar Persian blend of black tea and spices.

She put a saucer in front of Cordelia and gestured toward James, “Would you like some more?”

James nodded with a small smile. He’d taken up learning Persian with Matthew, much to her surprise. He was still too shy to speak it, but he knew enough to usually understand what Risa was asking him. “Thank you.”

She filled his cup and disappeared as James passed Cordelia the milk and sugar. They had spent enough mornings together that he knew she liked a splash of both in her tea.

Cradling the cup in her hands, she savored the comfort of it. Risa used the tea sparingly and Cordelia always liked the surprise when she did. A crate of the special blend was one of the gifts Mâmân had bestowed upon Cordelia when she married James three months ago.

The other had been Risa.

Not that Risa could be given, she worked for the Carstairs of her own free will. However, it had been discussed between the two women that Risa would go with Cordelia to her new home until Cordelia found a lady’s maid of her own.

Cordelia had argued against it, leading to shouting matches between her and her mother. It was the biggest disagreement they’d had, but Sona had been unrelentingly firm. When Cordelia left, Risa would go too.

That meant that while James and Cordelia’s home was a refuge from the theatrics they did in the outside world, some appearances had to be kept up inside the house.

Like sharing a bed. With two feet of space between them.

“Any plans for today?” James asked her, jarring her from memories of sleep mussed hair and accidental arm brushes.

“Lucie and I are going to train. With the murders still happening, we both want to be ready for anything,” she responded, munching on a piece of her flatbread. Shadowhunters had been turning up dead for weeks, most recently Archer Highsmith. The Clave was investigating without progress and so far she and the Merry Thieves weren’t making much ground either.

James nodded distractedly. Though he’d originally been the most adamant on finding the murderer, he’d become more cautious in the past few weeks. He argued that in order to avoid getting discovered by the Clave, they shouldn't investigate every night or go about anywhere without three others.

He drained his cup and Cordelia smiled when he reached for the pot. “I’m glad you like the tea so much.”

“I do,” he admitted shyly. “I promise to order some more for you, considering it’s your gift and I have drank a considerable amount of it.”

“It was a gift for _our_ wedding,” Cordelia remarked. She passed the sugar bowl back to him, but kept the milk by her plate. James didn’t like milk in his tea. “My mother intended it for both of us. I’m just surprised. Some do not like the strong flavor.”

“They are missing out on a lovely experience,” James said fondly to his saucer as he dropped three sugar cubes in. “The cinnamon is just strong enough for it to feel like a treat.”

“Well, it’s my favorite so I can’t discourage you from getting more.”

“I shall speak to your mother at the first opportunity,” James announced, the edge of awkwardness leaving their exchange.

“Well, she already knows about your love for tea after your stunt on our porch, so I doubt it will surprise." She responded impishly, thinking of his shouts months ago. When James just blinked at her in confusion, she cleared her throat. Perhaps he didn't remember. "What else do you have planned for the day?”

Before he could reply, there was pounding on their front door.

Cordelia and James exchanged a look of confusion as Risa made her way toward the door, muttering in Persian about the British and their aggressive knocking.

“Are we expecting someone?” James asked, brows furrowed.

“Not that I’m aware of.” The door opened and she strained her ears to hear who was there. There was frantic murmuring.

“ _Cordelia!_ ”

Risa’s panicked shout made her bolt from the table. In a moment, she was at the entrance. A glance around the foyer, one could say it was tasteful but sparse with the single Persian tapestry and the painting James had purchased from a peddler near Hyde Park. She and James weren’t particular on what hung on the walls when it would be cleared out in a year anyway.

The decor was far from Cordelia’s mind as she stopped a few feet from the front door. It was Alastair standing in the doorway, tears tracks on his cheeks.

Without him speaking a word, an iciness swept over her. Alastair hadn’t cried in front of her since they were children. That was how she knew, how she’d explain it to her brother later when he’d ask how she seemed to know before he ever spoke the words.

Alastair telling her didn't make a difference; she knew her parents were dead the moment she saw his face.

“Dâdâsh?” It was breathless even to her ears.

“It’s Mâmân and Baba,” He had not called Elias _Baba_ in years. “They were—last night they went out and—”

Cordelia did not move. She thought of the last horrid words she yelled at her father and how she'd barely spared her mother and her wailing baby brother a glance in her rage to leave.

“Cyrus?” Her brother, by the Angel—

“They left him at home, he’s fine. He’s with Cecily Lightwood.” Alastair responded numbly, hand gripping his hair. “But…Layla they’re dead. They were murdered like the others.”

The world tilted on its axis and she had nothing to hold onto. Behind her, James spoke but it was muffled and distant. Slowly, Cordelia sank to her knees.

_Mâmân. Baba_.

The wood paneling on the floor shined as she stared down at her barely-there reflection. She thought of her mother’s hand against her forehead and her father’s warm laugh.

Cordelia covered her face with her hands and didn't move, not until Alastair was next to her on the ground, pulling her to him.

She pushed her face into his shoulder and finally—finally—choked out a sob.

In strained Persian, Alastair tried reassuring her, “Layla, you still have me. We still have each other. I know. I’m here, sister. I know.”

The words rang hollow and her gasping breaths were loud in the room, but Alastair stayed right by her side.

In their grief they missed James staring on, horror and fear on his face.

* * *

Lucie did not like funerals. She doubted anyone did, but her distaste for them went back to childhood. When she’d read about mundane funerals, their open grief and solemn black clothing, she couldn't help but be a bit jealous. They felt their sadness and made it known. They wailed and wept and showed it. Shadowhunter funerals were full of expected composure and striking white clothing. She privately agreed with Mam, who said it still felt odd to wear white for mourning instead of the traditional black she’d been raised to use for death.

Now, in her white mourning gown for the third time in two months, Lucie realized that funerals were much more painful than she ever realized.

Anne Townsend. Jeremiah Longford. Serene Nightshade. Archer Highsmith. The most recent and painful additions to the list, Elias and Sona Carstairs.

Lucie glared at the Inquisitor as he made his way through the crowd, dodging questions and conversation. If he had made any new discoveries on who was behind the murders, he wasn't sharing the information. Instead, he was avoiding anyone, sticking to Mrs. Bridgestock and Ariadne’s side.

Standing in the outskirts of Alicante in a sea of mourning clothes, Lucie doubted that Cordelia noticed. She was standing stiffly, watching as the bodies were laid on the funeral pyres, eyes covered in the customary white silk.

Lucie’s heart ached for Cordelia, who had not shed a single tear that day. It was worrying. Stoicism from Alastair was expected, but Daisy was always open and honest about her feelings. Yet every day since Elias and Sona had been discovered as casualties in the string of homicides, she'd been as unmoving as a marble.

“It’s the damndest thing. Maurice thinks it’s a warlock, but of course the Herondales won’t even entertain the idea—”

“—and Mrs. Carstairs just had another son. I wonder if the daughter will take care of the child now. She’s _just_ married the Herondale boy.”

“I heard that he had a drinking problem. The family always kept to themselves, and Angel knows what happened in the vampire den.”

Next to her, she saw Cordelia’s nails dig into her palm. There had been open invitation to whoever wished to come, the Carstairs hadn't cared if anyone but themselves were there. Of course, the entire London Enclave decided to come pay respects and gossip like school children.

When the skin broke on Cordelia’s hand, Lucie reached forward and gently intertwined their fingers. Daisy’s palm was sticky with the half moon nail marks of blood, but it didn’t matter one bit.

“I’m here,” Lucie reminded her. “I’m right here.”

Cordelia’s eyes didn’t leave the pyres that held her parents’ bodies, but she squeezed Lucie’s hand to the point of pain.

As covertly as possible, Lucie looked around. James was nowhere to be seen.

Cordelia and Alastair had first arrived at the Institute three days prior and she'd hugged her _parabatai_ so fiercely she’d feared she would bruise her, but Cordelia had hugged back just as strongly. Mam and Dad had been supportive when they’d shown Alastair and Cordelia their rooms after they’d confirmed the bodies. They’d insisted the two stay the night while preparations were made for the funerals.

“You’re family. We will not let you be alone during this time.” Mam had told them, squeezing Cordelia’s hand. She and Dad had begun to leave the room, but not before putting a comforting hand on Alastair’s shoulder. Which, quite frankly, was the most worrying part. Alastair hadn’t seemed to mind.

Before the door closed behind them, her parents had mentioned James.

James, who had left the moment he’d gotten out of the carriage and disappeared for four hours. When he'd returned, he apologized profusely to Cordelia, who didn't even blink, and their parents, who barely contained their confused fury at him.

Lucie knew something was bothering him. He was being skittish and he clearly wasn’t sleeping, the shadows under his eyes a dead giveaway against his ghastly paleness. She tried to talk him to no avail. He wouldn’t share his troubles with his little sister.

When their family had arrived in Alicante that morning James had run off again, before Mam and Dad could scold him again for not being with Cordelia enough. Even if they didn’t know the truth of the marriage, Lucie agreed with them. Whatever was going on with him, James was being unbelievably rude. All she could hope for was that whatever corner he was hiding in at the funeral, he was talking to Matthew. Lucie vowed to give James a strong talking to regardless.

Thoughts of frustrating older brothers summoned Alastair, who finally broke away from shaking hands with another group of his father’s friends and returned to Cordelia’s other side. He had been kept busy by middle aged men with exaggerated stories of Elias and his younger years. As the oldest, it was his duty and there was no one else to greet them. He and Cordelia were the only family there. Sona’s relatives had sent their condolences but said a recent spike in demon activity in Tehran made travel to Idris difficult. Elias had no other family than Uncle Jem, and they’d left baby Cyrus in Risa’s care back in London.

“It’s time,” Alastair murmured to Daisy. “Are you ready?”

Beside her, Cordelia let out a shuddering breathe. “Yes.” Lucie kept her hand onhers while Mam and Dad came over. She looked at them helplessly, unsure how to help her friend. Dad put a comforting hand on Lucie’s shoulder.

"You're here with her. That's all you can do." Dad said quietly. He always understood.

Alastair and Cordelia stepped forward as the Silent Brothers materialized out of the crowd. They began with the traditional words, but she wasn’t paying attention. Instead, she was scanning the hooded figures.

“He’s third from the left, Lulu.” Her father murmured. Following his direction, she found Uncle Jem exactly at that spot. Her father could spot him in a crowd of hundreds.

Just as the Brothers finished their part, they turned to Cordelia and Alastair. The pair looked at each other, then to their parents bodies. “Ave atque vale.”

The crowd repeated it back to them. Lucie included, despite the lump in her throat.

She hadn’t been very close to Elias, but she’d loved Sona. Mrs. Carstairs always offered to converse in Persian to help her practice. She constantly reminded her how welcome she was. As Lucie watched her body burn, she nearly wept at the thought of the pain Daisy must be going through. Their little group stayed clumped together, and as the time went on, Lucie scanned the crowd again, this time finding Matthew's blonde head. He was standing close to Anna and Christopher. James was still nowhere in sight.

She brought her attention back to the funeral pyres and watched with Cordelia and Alastair. They stayed like that until all that was left were embers and ash.

_Pulvis et umbra sumus,_ Brother Enoch called, ending the ceremony. The Brothers began to collect the ashes and the crowd began dispersing.

Being dust and shadows was an accepted part of Shadowhunter life, and that meant sorrow was too, but Lucie was in awe of Cordelia and Alastair. She would have broken apart if, Angel forbid, she was in their shoes.

“Would you two like to head back now, or do you want to stay a little longer?” Dad asked Alastair and Cordelia. He’d offered for them all to spend the night in Herondale manor, but the Carstairs were eager to return to London.

“We’ll stay here for a little while,” Alastair tore his gaze away to look at her father. He cleared his throat and straightened. “But thank you.”

“Will and I are going to speak with the Inquisitor then,” Mam said, then hugged Cordelia and Alastair.

“I’ll stay here as well,” Lucie told them, watching the small tremors in Cordelia's face. Lucie leaned in when her mother kissed her forehead.

“Of course, darling.”

There were only small clusters of people left in the field when her parents left. She, Daisy, and Alastair were the only ones standing near what was left of the funeral pyres. Matthew and Thomas in twin mourning gear, came over and went to each respective Carstairs sibling.

In a flash, Cordelia launched herself at Matthew, wrapping her arms around his torso. Lucie watched in surprise as Matthew didn't hesitate to return the gesture, squeezing her tightly against him as she hid her face in his shoulder.

Lucie glanced at their friends but none were paying attention. Anna and Christopher talking to Aunt Cecily and Uncle Gabriel and Thomas was murmuring to Alastair off to the side.

Just as she relaxed, she caught sight of her mother staring right at them from across the field. Outwardly, there was nothing wrong with what Matthew and Cordelia were doing. Lucie had hugged her just the same, several times the past three days. The hug could easily be written off as comfort in the face of grief, but Lucie had seen them together. The looks Matthew gave Cordelia when he thought no one was looking and the soft smiles Daisy offered him after he made her laugh. In the privacy of her mind and journal, she was certain that when James and Daisy divorced, something would happen between them.

With Mam having that pinch between her eyebrows, the one she had when she was upset or worried, Lucie wondered if she wasn’t the only one who noticed.

* * *

Days blurred into weeks after the funeral. It was long hours spent in Cornwall Gardens with Alastair and Cyrus. Even though the Herondales had invited her and Alastair over a number of times, they’d mostly declined. They stayed in the Carstairs’ home.

Everyone assumed Cordelia would eventually return to her and James’ home. Unbeknownst to most, she only saw James when she went to pick up dresses a few times a week. If James cared or noticed, he never said so. He was quiet and reserved whenever she was near and Cordelia didn't have it in her to think about why. She pushed the hurt aside and left without saying beyond pleasantries to him.

Alastair had asked why she wasn’t with James or why he wasn’t with them, but Cordelia waved him off with excuses then changed the subject to something Cyrus had done. If James couldn't handle her grief she wouldn’t force him to. He was her husband in name only.

And it was a horrid sort of relief that she had reason to avoid everyone, except Lucie and Matthew. She loathed the pity that people stared with and she loathed that there were still no answers as to who had killed her parents. Lucie and Matthew had made it their duty to cajole her out for tea or lunch and aside from playing with her baby brother, they were Cordelia’s favorite part of her days. When it was hard to breathe with the weight of everything, they made it easier.

“Cyrus is beginning to look a lot like Alastair, just with blonde hair,” Lucie said on an afternoon walk around Kensington Gardens.

“Poor fellow. Hopefully, he’ll develop a better personality than him.” Matthew made a goofy face at Cyrus, who was in the pram Lucie was pushing. Cyrus giggled and Cordelia tried to hide her smile. Hearing Matthew make snide comments about Alastair was surprisingly comforting. It made life seem normal.

Then she got home to Alastair trying to make sense of their father's papers and Risa cooking dinner and hiding her tears.

_A Carstairs can endure all and endure it with grace_ , her father would have said when Cordelia sequestered herself in her room and wept. Yet she felt no grace in her, nor the strength to summon any.

  
 _Pulvis et umbra sumus,_ she reminded herself. That was what her parents were, what they all were. She thought of mundanes and their practices. They buried their dead and went to a grave to feel close to them. She envied that. She didn’t feel close to her parents when she visited the Carstairs mausoleum, or when she held Mâmân’s silver hairbrush and sat in her father’s favorite leather chair.

They just felt gone.

* * *

“What is the matter with you?”

James lowered _Great Expectations_ to a glowering Matthew. Despite his _parabatai_ ’s stormy expression, he was grateful for the company. He’d been reading for hours and was fighting against drooping eyelids. “What do you mean?”

“Why are you avoiding Cordelia?” Matthew demanded, looking at James as if he could glare the truth out of him. A truth that James didn't even know.

_Blood under nails, scratches down his arms when he woke up in the morning, and the nightmares that might not be nightmares, filled with screams and knives and—_

James looked away, eyeing the embers of the library’s dying fire. He would have to add more wood, it was late evening and the low glow of witchlight strained his eyes. “I’m giving her time to mourn.”

“She needs all of us right now and you barely deign to look at her,” Matthew accused. “You are her husband, and above all else, her friend, and you have been avoiding her for weeks.”

“I know.”

“And yet you continue?” Matthew's normal warm green eyes were unrelenting. James was taken aback at how angry and indignant he was. 

“It’s complicated,” James set aside the book and ran a hand through his hair. “With our arrangement…I assumed she’d like some time away from me. Besides, I haven’t been in the best spirits to see anyone.”

“That’s odd considering you’ve seen Grace twice in the last week and Cordelia not at all.”

James couldn't stop himself before he snapped, “Don’t speak of things you don’t understand.”

As soon as he spoke the words, he regretted them. Matthew was right and James knew it. He was being an awful friend. Yet he didn’t know how to explain that being with Grace was like handing the reigns of his mind off to someone more responsible. Or that he hated hardly seeing Cordelia but he couldn't reach out to comfort her without knowing if he was the monster he feared he was.

Matthew didn't know about the nightmares and he couldn’t tell him.

And he was exhausted. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept more than an hour at a time. Every night was shrouded with the terrifying possibility that if he fell asleep, someone would be dead when he woke up. Daisy was better off as far away from him as possible. “Math, I’m sorry, I didn't mean—”

“I don’t give a damn about what you say to me,” Matthew hissed at him. “I give a damn how you treat Cordelia.”

  
James looked at Matthew and all his indignation. Both of them of paused. It was the closest they'd ever come to a fight.

Despite himself, he wondered what exactly Matthew got so riled up in regards to Cordelia. The two did get on famously, always laughing and teasing one another. When James was with Daisy there was only blundering mornings and his awkward reassurances.

“You don’t understand.”

Matthew threw his hands into the air. “Then _help me_ understand, Jamie. You’ve been a walking ghost for nearly two months.”

Unable to meet his eyes, James turned to the window and saw a single figure walking the dimly lit streets. “I can’t.”

Matthew sighed. James waited for him to push and prod, but he didn’t. Instead, Matthew slammed the door behind him.

He tried his best to return to his book and not think of bloodied dreams and Daisy’s face as her parents’ bodies burned. Just as he began to be able to focus on Dickens again, the door opened once more. When he looked up, he bolted to his feet.

So untouchably beautiful it hurt, Grace stood in the doorway.

“What are you doing here?”

Her expression was troubled and her hands were fidgeting. “Lucie and I need your help.”

* * *

It was a morning not so different from the awful one Alastair had come with news of their parents. Once again, it was frantic knocking that startled Cordelia, who had been watching baby Cyrus sleep peacefully in his crib. Worry for Alastair was at the forefront of her mind. He had missed breakfast after claiming the previous night he had business and may not return until the next day.

All her worst fears came rushing to the surface as she ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

When she reached the threshold, Risa was holding the door open for Matthew. Her stomach clenched at the unexpected person on her doorstep. It was an overwhelming sense of deja vu.

Matthew’s hair was windblown and his face uncharacteristically grim. Even his attire was subdued, grey suit and dark blue waistcoat. “You must come to the Institute immediately. It’s Alastair.”

Her grip on the staircase railing tightened. She forced herself to ask, “Is he dead?”

“No,” Matthew said reassuringly, but twisted his hat in his hands. “But Jesse Blackthorn is alive. Resurrected.”

She stared at him. Memories of Tatiana Blackthorn’s shrill cries about a dead son before her banishment to the Citadel came to her. _My boy, Jesse_. “What does that have to do with my brother?”

Matthew hesitated and it chilled her to the bone. Something awful must have happened if it could make even Matthew afraid for Alastair.

“Just tell me, Matthew.”

His voice was strained when he finally spoke. “Alastair has been accused of resurrecting Jesse Blackthorn by means of necromancy. The Enclave has called a meeting. I do not know anything else.”

_You still have me, Layla. We still have each other._

The wood of the bannister cracked under her clenched hand. “Let me get my coat.”

* * *

James and Lucie grew up running up and down the staircases of the Institute, playing games and causing a ruckus, but the day after Jesse Blackthorn was brought back from the dead there was no gleeful laughter following their steps.

“I can explain everything if you would just listen!”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“He saved your life and he saved mine. I owed him—”

“Do you still not realize the danger you’ve put yourself in?” James demanded as he walked Lucie up the stairs to the training room. He had never yelled at her before, but that fevered pitch was as close as he’d come to it. Lucie felt her worry leave, indignation taking its place.

“No more than you when you burned down Blackthorn manor.”

“This is worse, infinitely worse,” James insisted, glancing around incase their parents were around. “Do you want to end up like Grandfather Edmund? Do you want Mam and Dad to have to see that?”

Lucie stumbled over the hem of her dress. “Of course not, but this was necessary.”

“This is the biggest violation of the Law that you could commit,” James rounded another corner without looking at her, passing the familiar pattern of birds on the wall. “You and I cannot afford to make these mistakes, Lucie. You know that. If the Clave finds out what you’ve done, it would being giving them the gift they’ve always wanted.”

Before she could defend herself, to explain how much Jesse had done for them, James herded her in to the training room. “Stay in here. I would have take you to the Devil’s Tavern but we don’t have the time. Don’t leave this room, not even if you’re starving or thirsty or going mad. People will start arriving any minute and I must go make sure everything is in order.”

He turned to leave but Lucie called out, “James.” He looked back at her, still in yesterday’s wrinkled clothing. “I’m sorry.”

For the first time since last night, when he had found her cradling Jesse Blackthorn’s breathing body, his expression softened. “I’m sorry, too, Luce.” Then it smoothed over back to his protective big brother face. “Now, don’t leave this room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm torn between believing Alastair will actually get the Scholomance boot and just wanting it to be anyone but Thomas or Matthew (i still love Alastair though, my problematic son)


	2. Chapter 2

Matthew tugged Cordelia toward seats two rows from the front of the Sanctuary. She was grateful he was leading the way, the fear and nausea swimming inside of her was overwhelming.

Necromancy. Raising a dead boy. It shouldn't be possible. For Alastair to be blamed for such a crime was one of the worst things to be accused of in the eyes of the Clave.

She couldn’t fathom how Alastair was being accused of this madness. She doubted he even know who Jesse Blackthorn _was_.

When she scanned the room she saw none of the Herondales there, nor was Consul Fairchild and Inquisitor Bridgestock. She ignored the urge to ask Matthew where James was.

Instead, she thought of the last time she'd been in this room, with Tatiana screaming accusations at James for burning down Blackthorn manor and how she managed to save him then. She hadn’t a single clue how she could save her brother now.

Beneath her was the tiled image of Raziel and the Mortal Instruments, and around her were rows of gossiping Nephilim.

_Please_ , she prayed to the Angel. _Please, not Alastair too._

Cordelia looked one more time around the room for Lucie or James, but there was only the skeptical stares of the London Enclave. 

Just as she sat down, Christopher and Thomas appeared at the four empty seats Matthew had brought her towards. Both were frazzled and pale.

“Cordelia,” Thomas said, breatheless. “I’m so sorry, but we can’t find James or Lucie—”

“What happened to Alastair?” She demanded. “How is he caught up in any of this?”

His mouth flattened. “Grace.”

Before she could reply, the doors of the Sanctuary swung open. Consul Fairchild and Inquisitor Bridgestock glided in. They wore black robes and unreadable expressions as the Shadowhunters settled down into a hush of whispers.

Mr. and Mrs. Herondale came in immediately after, eyes darting around the room. They must have been looking for their children. When Tessa’s eyes locked with hers, there was a profound sadness in them. It made Cordelia freeze when a moment ago she would have fought for answers. 

Charlotte approached her lectern and spoke briskly. “We are here today to discuss the matter of Jesse Blackthorn and the one among us who has dabbled in the black arts.”

“Is the boy really resurrected?” A man from somewhere in the back interjected. “Such a thing should be impossible.”

Charlotte’s mouth tightened and the Inquisitor responded with a careful, “There is much to discuss.”

“But is he alive or not?” George Penhallow asked. 

“He lives again,” Charlotte replied, loud and flat. It left no room for disbelief and the whispers crescendoed into a roar. She raised a hand. “Quiet, please.” As usual, people listened to Consul Fairchild. “We shall begin. All questions will likely be answered with the coming testimonies.”

As she finished speaking, the doors opened again. Three figures were escorted in by a cluster of Silent Brothers and brought before the London Enclave: weeping Grace, a wide-eyed black haired boy who she assumed was Jesse Blackthorn by the way he clung to Grace, and a rumpled Alastair.

His clothes were wrinkled and he was covered in black smudges. The worst of it was his face. Only someone who knew him could see the defeat. He was skilled at hiding things from her, but she could tell the important things. If he was angry, if he was willing to talk, if he was gearing up for a fight. The Alastair standing there with his hands behind his back looked as if the fight was already over.

Cordelia tried to catch his eye as the three kneeled, Grace and Jesse a good distance from her brother. Alastair kept his gaze on the Consul.

Some of the older members gasped and pointed at Jesse Blackthorn, who was pale and thin but breathing. Gideon and Gabriel Lightwood went white as a sheet when they saw him. He looked a great deal like Tatiana, Cordelia thought. The same sharp bone structure.

“This is unnatural!” Mrs. Wentworth exclaimed. Several people around her voiced their agreement. “A very violation of the laws of man.”

“That is why we’re here, Wendy.” Charlotte said tiredly. “To find out who broke those laws and what we will do about it.” Her eyes flickered to Alastair. 

Next to her, Matthew gripped her hand. His eyes were narrowed, gaze flickering between his mother and Mr. and Mrs. Herondale.

Without looking to his counterpart, Inquisitor Bridgestock turned to her brother. “Alastair Carstairs, you stand accused of performing necromancy, of using black magic forbidden to Nephilim.” Cordelia felt a wave of nausea. Why wouldn’t her brother look at her? “There are witnesses who say they saw you raise Jesse Blackthorn from the dead. How do you answer these charges?”

“I do not answer them.”

She stared at Alastair dumbfounded. Will put a hand to his temple and Tessa shut her eyes. Alastair didn't seemed bothered by the reactions to his words. He was expressionless before the crowd, limp black hair obscuring part of his face.

“You do not answer them?” Charlotte demanded incredulously. “Mr. Carstairs, the charges against you are grave and the consequences even graver.”

“If there are witnesses, then there is very little I can say in my defense, isn't there?”The defiance was considered tantamount to a confession. The Enclave members began shouting again, and Jesse leaned into Grace, who hugged him.

Cordelia watched Alastair in confused fury. Someone had done something, blackmailed him. She knew her brother. He would never dabble in black magic, nothing even close to it. 

“Grace Blackthorn.”

“Yes, Inquisitor Bridgestock?”

“Tell us exactly what happened. Leave nothing out.”

Grace gently removed her arms from around her brother. After surveying the room, she took a delicate breathe. Cordelia fought the urge to go up there and shake her. “Yesterday evening, I received an invitation from Mr. Carstairs to meet him near Highgate Cemetery. I thought it odd, I had only spoken to him a handful of times, but he said he had some news regarding my mother.” A pause. “I know she made many mistakes but I miss her terribly. So when he told me to bring something of hers so that I could talk to her, I went. When I arrived there were…runes I didn’t recognize on the ground. A pentagram with a glass casket in the middle, bronze tablets and old books surrounding it. I tried to run but some strong force kept me there. It was a shadow, maybe a type of demon. I couldn't tell, there was so much happening.”

Another wave of murmurs flooded the room, but with one stare from Charlotte everyone quieted down.

“He asked if my mother ever taught me the black arts she practiced. I said no, of course not. Then…then he said he would do me a favor. He said that before he could bring back his parents he needed to experiment on someone else incase it went wrong. He was babbling, I could hardly understand him let alone ask him why he chose my brother.”

His parents. _No, he would never_ —

“Jesse has been dead for years. I didn’t believe Alastair could do it. But he began to chant things in a language I don’t know, and—and when he finished,” Grace broke off and sniffled. “Jesse was there. He was back, laying in the casket. Before Alastair could bring back his parents, I managed to run away with Jesse when he was distracted and got help.”

Consul Fairchild looked at the Blackthorns with an unreadable expression but Bridgestock was nodding.

“I know it’s against the Law for Shadowhunters to meddle in the dark arts, so I reported him. But please, please don’t take Jesse away again.” Grace began crying, and this time Jesse comforted her.

“How do we know that this isn’t some trick, a demon in disguise?” An elderly woman named Callida asked.

“The Silent Brothers have examined him. He is Jesse Blackthorn.”

“And you, boy? What say you?” Jesse's head turned up in surprise at being addressed. Then, he turned toward the crowd. The meekness he’d had at being in front of everyone had subsided. His eyes, a piercing green, were steady when he answered the Inquisitor. “I don’t remember anything. I remember my mother and Grace by my bedside, then nothing until I woke up in the dirt of the cemetery.”

Gabriel and Gideon were still staring at their nephew in disbelief.

“Miss Blackthorn, are you certain the person performing the ceremony was Alastair Carstairs?” Charlotte asked.

“Yes, it was him. I saw him very clearly.”

It took everything in Cordelia not be sick on the tiled floor.

“We have the evidence. We could ask the Brotherhood to bring the Mortal Sword,” Bridgestock gestured toward her brother. “but it depends on if Mr. Carstairs has anything to say against these allegations.”

“Alastair Carstairs.” Charlotte looked at him beseechingly. “If you have anything to say in your defense, say it now.”

He looked directly at the Consul. “I do not deny it.”

“Stop.” Cordelia had meant to yell, but it came out as a broken whisper.

“Very well,” Charlotte replied, her voice wavering for the first time. “There seems to be little doubt. We must now decide on punishment.”

“Strip him of his Marks!”

“Banishment!”

“Stripping him of his Marks is the most appropriate option,” Bridgestock declared to the room, in showmanship more than anything.

Cordelia let go of Matthew and stood up, chest heaving. “She’s lying.”

All heads in the room whipped towards her.

“Mrs. Herondale—”

“My name is Cordelia Carstairs,” she spat back at Inquisitor Bridgestock. He and Charlotte looked on as she moved away from Matthew, Thomas, and Christopher, who were all gaping at her. This was the second time she’d interrupted a meeting, though she had none of the calm of her last outburst. Maybe this room was cursed. “You believe one girl’s word? When she is the only one who benefited from this? She’s probably the one who brought him back. Her mother dabbled in black magic and just because she claims to know nothing about it doesn't mean it’s true! Where are the other witnesses? Where is the Mortal Sword? Where is _justice_?”

She stared directly at Grace as she spoke. There was little sorrow behind her tears, only warning. “I will happily testify under the Mortal Sword.”

Cordelia faltered and Alastair finally turned to her, eyes blazing. “ _Beshinid,_ ” he hissed at her. “Sit down.”

She ignored him. “You’re lying,” she called to Grace again. It felt like she was grappling at the edge of a cliff and the ground was crumbling under her grip. “Alastair wouldn't do this. You resurrected your dead brother and now you’re trying to blame it on mine.”

“Or maybe you don’t know your brother as well as you think you do,” Grace replied calmly.

And like that, something in Cordelia snapped and she moved toward Grace and Jesse.

Distantly, she knew it was a senseless thing to do. Charging at them like that, in front of the entire Enclave? What was she going to, threaten her with Cortana until she told the truth? It didn't matter. All that was in her mind were the empty halls of home, Mâmân and Baba burned to ashes, Cyrus’s cries, and herself alone.

Grace was pretty, so delicate and doll-like. Even with tear tracks on her face and eyes widened, she was beautiful. But Cordelia now saw the snake in her, that hidden calculation in her every move. To think she had pitied her once. 

With no idea what she would have done once she’d reached the stage, two arms wrap around her waist and pulled her back.

The jeweled rings and Fairchild band gave him away, but they were close enough that she would’ve recognized his hands anyway.

“Let go,” she raged, struggling against Matthew. He was strong, dragging her back several feet, but she had incentive. “Let me go!”

“It’ll only make things worse,” He huffed, nearly losing his grip. “Cordelia, _please_.”

“ _She’s lying!_ ”

Maman’s jewelry in a box Cordelia couldn’t even look at, her father’s books dusted and and straightened, Cyrus, her baby brother who would never even know them—

She couldn’t let them take Alastair.

Thomas appeared at their side. While she was near Matthew’s height, Thomas was taller and stronger than both of them. His iron grip wrapped around her left arm, and Matthew moved to hold her right. She knew they were trying to help her, to stop her from doing something stupid, but Cordelia couldn’t stop picturing her parents’ bodies burning in the fields of Brocelind. Alastair by her side through everything. She had to be there for him too. “Grace Blackthorn, tell them the truth!”

“Miss Carstairs, be silent,” Bridgestock snapped. “Or you will be made silent.”

Thomas turned to the Inquisitor and Consul, hazel eyes glowering. “Give her a moment.”

“Absolutely not,” Bridgestock reprimanded sharply. “Cordelia Carstairs, should you interrupt again, not only will you be punished alongside your brother, you will make his punishment worse.”

Cordelia immediately sagged against Matthew and Thomas, the words a bucket of ice water thrown on her. The eyes of the entire room were on her. Did she remind them of crazed Tatiana? She nearly smiled at the irony.

Taking advantage of her slackness, Thomas and Matthew practically dragged her toward the back of the room as Cordelia glared at all the hungry gazes.

“He could be stripped of his Marks,” She said, barely audible, when it was just the three of them huddled together.

“I’m sorry,” Matthew whispered back. His face was pained and he loosened his grip on her, pulling away so she could distance herself from him.

She didn’t. Lucie wasn’t there. Alastair was in front of the Enclave, as good as gone. Leaning against Matthew was the only thing keeping her standing.

“We don’t know what they’ll decide,” Thomas murmured, moving to stand in front of her. He didn't sound reassuring.

Will stepped forward just as the shouting began again. “Stripping him of his Marks is too severe a punishment for a boy who has never committed a crime before this.”

“But the crime he has committed is the most unforgivable,” Mr. Longford shot back. “I vote in favor of it.”

Cordelia thought of the joy Alastair took in being a Shadowhunter. Even if he read mundane newspapers, he could never be one of them.

Naël Archambeau, the head of the Paris Institute who was in London visiting, stood up. “I disagree. Alastair Carstairs spent a year in Paris. My family says there has not been a more level-headed and capable young man under our roof.” The tall, graying man gazed softly at Alastair. “I believe he should be shown a path of reform.”

“He brought back the dead and shows no remorse for it,” George Penhallow said.

One of the five Silent Brothers that had entered the Sanctuary stepped forward. Cordelia hadn't looked before but she knew the black hair streaked with silver beneath that hood. Jem.

_I have examined Alastair’s mind and grief clearly blinded him. He seems to understand the gravity of what he has done._

“Grief is not an excuse to break the Law. If it was, nearly everyone in this room would have reason to,” Bridgestock responded, and those near him nodded. However, a good portion of the room looked interested in what Jem had to say. Cordelia tightened her fists in her skirt and felt the smallest hope.

_That is true, but Alastair is a talented young Shadowhunter. It would be a great waste of potential to strip him of his Marks. Grief and anger for his murdered parents was his sole motivator. While that is not an excuse, leniency is applicable to those worthy of it._

“He broke the laws of Heaven and earth,” Penhallow argued back.

Jem tilted his head in acknowledgement. _He did. It is a grievous action, but it must be determined if it is enough to wipe out an entire future._

“I trained him at the Academy,” Another man said, though she didn’t recognize him. “It would be a waste of a good warrior.”

“I believe we should consider reform as well.” Charlotte interjected before a sputtering Bridgestock could speak.

“Strip him of his Marks!”

Will marched toward the front of the room. Like Charlotte, he had the air of someone you listened to and the room hushed. “Alastair is young. He has lost his parents and has no answers as to why. I’ve seen what this boy is capable of and I believe reform is the most acceptable course of action.”

“The boy could do it again,” Mr. Wentworth warned.

“Then I vouch for him,” Will declared. “I vouch for Alastair Carstairs on my honor as a Shadowhunter and as head of the London Institute. Should he even consider trying such a thing again, I will bear punishment for it as well.”

It stunned the Enclave to silence. It wasn't a small or a meaningless statement. Not for the first time, Cordelia was grateful for the love between Will and Jem.

“There’s always the reformatory at the Scholomance,” George Penhallow suggested, though how he changed his mind so quickly was beyond her. His statement got several nods.

"Time there has been known to work miracles," Ariadne Bridgestock said.

“Scholomance then,” the Inquisitor announced, unhappy with the proceedings and his daughter, but smart enough to see the shift of the tide. “A year sentence there will give him time to learn from his mistakes.”

Any hope that she’d felt left just as quickly. In front of her, Thomas was shaking. She dug her nails into Matthew’s coat.

There were places of secrecy among the Nephilim, like the Adamant Citadel and the City of Bones. There were also places that were supposed to be secret but everyone knew about anyway. Scholomance was one of them. Once a school for the Centurion, it now quietly operated as a place of reformation. Rumors and whispers of brutality and extreme regiment surrounded it. People who went in did not come out the same.

_Six months would do, Inquisitor. It has shown to be ample time for reform._

“Half a year? That's not enough time. He brought someone back from the dead!”

_Eight months._ Brother Enoch intervened. _It is the standard sentence the Brotherhood recommends._

“Those in favor of eight months at Scholomance say _aye_.” Charlotte called.

Surprisingly, there was a chorus of begrudging agreement. It was barely half of the room but it was the amount they needed. Cordelia noticed Tessa had her hands clasped together and a concentrated expression.

Charlotte nodded curtly. “The matter is decided. Alastair Carstairs, you are sentenced to eight months at the reformatory of Scholomance. You will leave immediately.”

“As for Jesse Blackthorn,” she continued, everyone already eyeing him like he was a Greater Demon, not a scrawny boy of sixteen. “He will be kept in the Silent City until tomorrow where we decide how to proceed with his...special circumstances. This meeting is adjourned.”

Cordelia’s trembled as she desperately clung to the fury running through her. The moment it left she would fall apart. The crowd parted so she could see Alastair again. He was saying something to Jem, then was led away by the other Silent Brothers. He did not look at her again.

There was little ease in her heart as she saw the back of her brother’s head vanish out the doors. Scholomance was not a victory. 

Scholomance was a type of hell.

* * *

Matthew watched as his mother disappeared around a corner with Uncle Will and Cordelia immediately followed them, breaking away from him and Thomas without a word. He watched her go, unsure. When he turned to Thomas, he nodded in that direction. “Go. You’re the only one she might talk to.”

“Right,” he tried to hide the nervousness that came with Thomas’s words. They didn’t mean anything untoward, but he still felt Thomas’s eyes on him as he walked away.

He navigated the familiar corridors as he heard footsteps far ahead. One would think the Devil was after Cordelia by the way she was walking. He wasn’t, but his wrath was in her every step. Matthew was grateful he didn't have as much to drink that morning as he normally did.

  
Breaking into a brisk jog, Matthew caught up to her. She was not running but neither was she doing an idle stroll. 

“Where are they?” Cordelia asked, gaze straight ahead.

“Drawing room, probably. Will and my mother always chat there.”

He said nothing else as they continued on.

If asked, Matthew would describe Cordelia as level-headed, witty, and kind. Seeing her lose control in the Sanctuary made him realize how close she must be to breaking. She’d just begun returning to herself after Elias and Sona’s death, but after this, Matthew knew that was over. As much as he hated Alastair, the reformatory was not something he wished on anyone, least of all someone who meant the world to one of his best friends.

In reflex, he went to grab his flask. It was empty. He would've dipped into the Herondales' stock but he had hardly had time since he’d driven to get Cordelia that morning.

His nerves were getting to him, but he tried to ignore them. He had to be there for Cordelia, to walk alongside her and not be sloshed doing it. Next to him, she stopped abruptly. They had reached the largest drawing room and heard two familiar voices arguing behind the ajar door. He and Cordelia exchanged a look and leaned in to listen.

“—was a sham. You know he didn't do it.”

  
  
“I know nothing of the sort. Grace Blackthorn has the letter he sent to her last night. There are witnesses that saw him at the cemetery. He did not say a word in his defense.”

Will’s response was furious. “ _Exactly_ , Charlotte. He won’t talk about it, he couldn’t answer the specifics of the ceremony when questioned. He seems to know nothing about black magic.”

“Refusal to speak about a crime does not mean innocence.”

“Well, I know Alastair and he wouldn't do this.”

“Will, I know he’s a Carstairs,” Their faces were blocked by the door, but Matthew could hear her voice soften. “And that you would do anything for them, but you’ve reached the limit of what you can do. As have I, and so have Jem and Tessa. Alastair is lucky he only received eight months at Scholomance. I was certain we would have to strip him of his Marks. Being a Carstairs helped him here, but it cannot save him from the Law.”

Cordelia straightened. “Enough of this,” she whispered and before he could stop her —dear Lord, he was doing that a lot lately. When had he become the responsible one?— she shoved the door open.

Will and Mama looked up in surprise. Lucie had once said that when Cordelia was in a mood, she walked around with clenched fists and her head high, ready to fight the world. In that moment, Cordelia looked exactly like that. “My brother is falsely accused, anyone who heard that testimony would know that.”

Mama recovered first. “We asked your brother to speak on his innocence.” She glanced at Matthew with a frown but thankfully focused on Cordelia. “He refused. There are witnesses, paper evidence, and a resurrected boy. The Law is clear what must be done here.”

“To hell with the Law, Mother, what about the truth?” He demanded. Hell must have frozen over if he was defending Alastair Carstairs, but Cordelia’s face when she’d watched him be interrogated was still fresh in his mind.

“The Law is hard, Matthew,” his mother snapped, “but it is the Law. If either of you have any evidence to support your claim that Grace Blackthorn is lying please share it with myself and the Inquisitor.”

Matthew hadn't been angry at his mother in years. He hadn’t thought he was allowed to be after what he’d done. It was why he’d moved out of Grosvenor Square when she confronted him about his drinking and avoided Charles when he was sent to check on him. Yet he knew that Mama believed Uncle Will and Cordelia. She didn’t think Alastair did it. It was in her frown and the set of her shoulders. Whatever had happened the night before, whatever evidence there was, she didn't believe it, not completely. She still refused to back down.

Neither did Cordelia. “If the Law and those wielding it are so easily manipulated then it is no wonder so many ignore it.”

His mother’s expression hardened. “Take care, Miss Carstairs.”

Will stepped forward. “Cordelia dear, I understand your anger, I do. But the Consul has done her best.”

Cordelia relaxed a fraction at Will’s voice. Then his mother spoke, “Unless you have evidence of the contrary, Alastair’s sentence is final.”

In her plum gown and Cortana strapped to her back, Matthew thought Cordelia looked like a tragic hero. Beautiful, fierce, and out of luck. She looked at his mother and said calmly, “You’re being lied to.”

After a murmured thanks to Will, she left. Matthew meant to follow her, but Will stopped him. “Matthew?”

He turned back to his mother leaning against a chair and Will staring at him. “Yes?”

“Have you seen James?”

* * *

Cordelia made her way back to the Sanctuary, she hoped to find Lucie. She needed her friend more than ever, but she was stopped by the last person she wanted to see.

“Get out of my way.”

“I am sorry for your losses,” Grace said instead of moving. With perfect posture, she stood in the middle of the hall. There was curiosity in her face as she walked forward, pale blue gown moving like water. “And that your brother is being sent away.”

“If you had any training, I would fight you here,” Cordelia replied, moving past her.

“It was either your brother or Lucie.”

She stopped at the corner of the hall, where the entrance to the Sanctuary was visible. The room had cleared out, only a few, including Tessa, Thomas, and Christopher, were still there.

Against her will, Cordelia asked, “What do you mean?”

“I mean it was either Alastair or Lucie who got dragged before the Clave today.”

She whirled around and felt the same fury from earlier. She closed the distance between them with two steps. “How _dare_ you threaten Lucie.”

“Threaten? I saved Lucie.” Grace tilted her head, cool gray eyes boring into Cordelia’s. “This is her doing.”

She scowled. “You think I believe you?”

Grace gave her an amused look. “Do you really think I brought back Jesse alone? I have no training or skill. My knowledge of black magic is limited despite my mother.”

“You are this earth’s greatest liar and I will speak to this Consul about this.”

“That would be unwise.” She walked to the side with great fluidity for someone with no training. “Think very hard on what your _parabatai_ has been up to these past few months.”

Despite herself, memories of Lucie disappearing for hours, Lucie making excuses and staying home nearly every other day, Lucie hiding papers and books when anyone entered the room.

She would humor her. “Why blame Alastair?”

“If the Clave had discovered Lucie Herondale had dabbled in the necromantic arts, she never would have received the mercy your brother did. Alastair has the Herondales, a Silent Brother, and the Consul to back him, a good reputation and dead parents for sympathy, and blood untainted.” Before Cordelia could reply, Grace shrugged. “Lucie would have been stripped of her Marks without a second thought.”

“You don’t know that.”

"Just because you don’t mind their warlock blood doesn’t mean it doesn't matter. The Clave would have pounced on the opportunity like a starving demon swarm, just like they would have in the spring if you hadn't saved James.”

Lucie would never do black magic. She would never try to bring back the dead and let Alastair take the blame.

“Lucie knew the risks. It’s why she let me handle this. Why do you think she was not there? Nor James?” Cordelia stared and Grace looked right back.

“I don’t believe you,” She finally managed to get out.

Grace continued, as if she hadn't spoken. “Hate me if it helps you, but Alastair agreed to the plan. Remember that before you make more of a fuss.” After watching for a moment, as if to make sure Cordelia truly understood, she nodded and glided away.

With a knot in her stomach, Cordelia went to Lucie’s room. No one was there, just scatters of crumbled papers. She glanced at some of the older books on the shelf, some in Latin and a demonic language, kept up by ceramic ducks bookends that Cordelia had bought her as a joke.

Leaving the room with burning eyes, she checked every conceivable place Lucie could be: the library, the drawing rooms, the kitchen, the entire family wing.Finally, close to giving up, Cordelia went to the training room. Sitting on the floor in the far right corner was Lucie. She was crouched down, a sunny yellow dress pooled around her.

Her head jerked up in surprise when Cordelia entered. “Daisy?”

“Here you are.” Cordelia’s voice sounded strained but Lucie didn’t seem to notice, instead she jumped to her feet in a flash.

“Were you at the Enclave meeting? Is it over? Is Jesse alright?”

“Is Jesse alright?” She repeated in disbelief. Grace had been lying. She had to have been lying. “Why do you care about Jesse Blackthorn?”

“Oh, I have so much to tell you.” Lucie’s hand fluttered nervously. “He is someone important to me."

“You know him?”

“Yes, it’s a long story. Full of ghosts, forests, and a dreadful amount of demonic reading.” Lucie rambled when she was nervous. Cordelia normally found it endearing. It was not endearing right then. “Grace and I—”

“Grace and you?” She echoed, then felt like an idiot for parroting everything she was saying. “Are you two thick as thieves now?”

Seeming to catch on to her mood, Lucie’s smile dropped. “No, it’s…we worked together to bring Jesse back.”She paused. “Wait, how did you know it was me?”

“No,” Cordelia managed to say beyond the knot in her throat. “You were never mentioned. Grace told me afterwards that you did it.”

“She did?” Lucie was now the one confused, but she shook her head as if it didn’t matter. “I’m sorry I couldn't tell you sooner, but no one could know. It would have put you in danger.”

“So instead you endanger someone else?”

“What do you mean?”

Since arriving in London, Cordelia weathered blow after blow. This was another and this betrayal stung worse than anything before it. “I knew you had a secret. I trusted that you could handle yourself, but by the Angel Lucie, what have you done?”

“I know necromancy is scary but I don’t want you to think differently of me,” Lucie said wide-eyed.

She felt very, very cold. “I don’t care that you performed necromancy. I care about the repercussions of necromancy.”

“I owed Jesse a life debt, I had to help him. I wanted to—” Lucie continued on, reaching for her eagerly. When Cordelia flinched back, hurt flashed across her face. “What’s the matter?”

“Alastair,” Cordelia bit out. “Grace accused Alastair of resurrecting Jesse.”

“Alastair?” Lucie’s disbelief was clear. Cordelia didn’t know if that was better or worse.

They were going in circles, repeating the other, sounding like strangers or idiots, not sworn sisters. Cordelia clenched her jaw. “He was blamed for it. They sentenced him to reform at Scholomance. For eight months.”

Lucie’s features morphed into horror. “He wasn’t supposed to be blamed. That’s why James hid me, just in case things went wrong with the lie. Grace said—”

“And everything Grace says is the truth?” Cordelia demanded. She ignored the clenching of her stomach when Lucie mentioned James. How much had he known? She didn’t think him capable of allowing someone innocent to be blamed, but she’d also seen his devotion to Grace, the razing of a manor for it. It was a blind devotion he’d never shown to anyone else, especially her.

How much had James known? Where was he? She was in a nightmare. Any minute she would wake up and Alastair would be home and no dead bodies would be breathing again.

“How could you believe her?” She asked, desperately. “The Clave would never take some flimsy excuse for necromancy, especially the only successful case there has ever been!”

“I—”

“He is the only family I have left.” Cordelia desperately tried to hold on to the anger, to get answers to her questions, but she felt it waning. Instead her chest was tightening and her breathes were shallow.

“You must know, truly you must, that I did not know she would blame him,” Lucie pleaded.

Cordelia looked at her dearest friend and for the first time she wanted to be as far from her as possible. It didn’t matter if Lucie had known what Grace would do. It mattered that she brought someone back from the dead and thought there would be no consequences. It mattered because instead of going to that Sanctuary meeting, she hid here while Alastair’s reputation and future was decimated by the Clave and now he'd be tortured for nearly a year.

And yet even furious, distraught, alone, Cordelia couldn’t betray her.

_If the Clave had discovered Lucie Herondale had dabbled in necromantic arts do you think she would have received the mercy your brother did?_

Just above a whisper she admitted, “I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for this.”

Tears sprang from Lucie’s eyes. She still felt guilty making her cry. Lucie reached out, the _parabatai_ rune on her wrist peeking out from under sleeve.They’d both gotten it on their left wrist. The placement had been a statement to the Clave; despite their doubt in women’s minds they were fully capable of choosing sworn partners and would have that rune on display. It felt like a joke now. The rune of her own wrist burned.

“Daisy, I am so sorry—”

Cordelia backed away from her even further. This may be unfair, but what part of her life the past two months had been fair? She couldn’t save her brother, couldn’t do anything to Grace, or to the person who murdered her parents. This was all the retribution she was allowed. Numbly, she realized, “I have no one now.”

“That’s not true.”

Cordelia turned. Tessa and Jem were in the doorway. Tessa had been the one to speak, worry in her steel grey eyes. “I understand you’re upset, dear, but you have our family by your side. Always.”

A bitter laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “Do they know?” Cordelia asked Lucie, who was ashen. She didn’t look at her mother or Jem.

_Do we know what?_

“You tell them,” Lucie shook her head but Cordelia went on. “Tell them the danger you put them in. That you’ve brought upon my brother. I will not do it for you.”

Tessa’s eyebrows furrowed. “Lucie, what danger?”

Cordelia looked to Jem before Lucie could say a word. “Can I see Alastair before they take him?”

Jem paused. _It will have to be brief and soon, but yes._

“I’ll wait for you downstairs,” she replied. She was grateful to Jem. He had spoken up and gotten Alastair’s sentence lessened, but she also knew how much he loved the Herondales. She didn't want to be there for the relief that would follow once he knew that Lucie was safe.

Without looking at any of them, Cordelia fled. She heard Lucie’s cries and explanations as she stalked away. It took all her strength not to turn back.

* * *

Zachariah tried to give as much privacy as possible to his cousins as they said goodbye. He ruminated on the previous twenty four hours, on how everything had gone so wrong.

Having hid his mind from his Brothers for most of the day, he’d guided Cordelia to the cells of the Silent City where Alastair was being held. He had not even left her side before she began to yell.

“Why didn’t you fight it?”

"Why did you do something as stupid as charge at Grace Blackthorn in front of the entire Enclave?" Alastair countered. He was glaring at Cordelia through the bars.

"I had to do something since you clearly weren't," Cordelia said, not shrinking under her brother's withering gaze.

“There was no point.” Alastair's drained of anger, now sounding exhausted. It was not surprising considering he had been interrogated the entire night and morning. “Grace Blackthorn planned it all. She knew about Charles and threatened me with it. You didn't see him today for a reason. She told me about Lucie Herondale being involved. She knew who would speak up for me and what arguments they'd make. Without fail, she knew exactly what to say to get me to agree with her ridiculous plan. And I did.”

“Charles told her?” Jem didn't know how Charlotte’s oldest fit into this, but he remained silent.

“No. I’m not sure how she knew. But that wasn’t the only reason. If I fought the charges, Lucie would have gotten all the blame. Her mother is a warlock, Layla. You know as well as I do that Lucie never would have received a sentence to the reformatory. Besides, I owe James and it seems this is my chance to pay it.”

Though there was a wall of ice around Jem’s heart, it still nearly contracted. If Lucie’s role had been made known, nothing he, Will, or Charlotte said would have been able to save her. He and Will had used all their cards to get Alastair sent to Scholomance. He did not look forward to his conversation with Enoch later.

He would need to send word to Will and Tessa about the Blackthorn girl.

“You know what happens at the Scholomance,” Cordelia's voice shook. She put both her hands on the bars. “You can’t go to that place.”

“I have to.” There was a rustling against the stone walls, and he saw Alastair moving around in his cell. “I have a lot to make for. Perhaps it was always supposed to be this way, my very own path to redemption.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Cordelia pleaded. Oddly, Zachariah was reminded of Tessa pleading with Jessamine for her help all those years ago. To think he’d once believed this generation could avoid the suffering his had. Pain was present in every age no matter how hard you tried to shield those you loved from it.

Cordelia continued, pulling him from his reverie of surprisingly simpler times. “You never should have agreed. We can talk to Charlotte Fairchild.”

“And tell her what? I can't let you loose your _parabatai_ , not when you’ve lost so much already.” It was odd to hear Alastair speak like this. He had always been reserved and prickly, to Zachariah and to everyone else. "I don't think you could do it either."

“You’re my brother,” Cordelia cried. The pain in her voice made him wish it was possible to free Alastair without jeopardizing Lucie. “Do you think I will be at all okay now that I have lost you?”

There was quiet, then Alastair asked, “What does the inscription on Cortana say?”

“You know what it says.”

“Humor me.”

Cordelia stared at her brother then sighed. “‘I am Cortana, of the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durendal.’”

Alastair leaned against the bars. “And Cortana chose you. That means you are of the same steel and temper as those swords and the great heroes who wielded them."

"But—"

"You’re strong, Layla. It will be difficult, but you were always the strongest of us.” His voice was strained and Jem bowed his head.

Cordelia’s sob echoed in the Silent City, and he watched as Alastair extended his hand, reassuringly. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“It shouldn’t be you.” She wept as she gripped her brother’s arm.

He’d had Will and he’d loved better than any brother, but a sibling who weathered the pains and trials of the same parents and childhood was something he would never truly understand. Cordelia and Alastair shared that bond and he mourned that she was losing that, in addition to already having lost Elias and Sona.

He saw Alastair blink several times before schooling his features. Cordelia sat on the ground, clinging to Alastair through the bars. “You must take care of yourself and Cyrus while I’m away. Until I return, our baby brother is in your and James’ care.”

Cordelia’s shoulders stiffened at the mention of James. Zachariah realized two things: one, that Alastair didn’t know James was aware of Lucie’s involvement and two, James hadn’t been in the Sanctuary. Nor anywhere after. Lucie hadn’t even known where he’d gone. Just as he began to wonder if worry was necessary, Enoch spoke to all the Brothers. _Alastair Carstairs will be sent to Scholomance within the hour._

Jem reluctantly went over to his cousins. Putting a hand on her shoulder, he spoke as gently as he could. _Cordelia, it is time._

Cordelia tightened her grip on Alastair’s arm and shook her head. _You may occasionally write to Alastair. I will ensure he gets any letter you send, but you must go._

With a nod to Zachariah, Alastair let go of Cordelia’s hand and leaned against the wall, outside of his sister’s reach. “Go, Layla.”

She curled into herself briefly before standing, tall and steady. She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand and he felt something as close to awe as he was capable of feeling at her unending strength. “I will write to you. I know you forget to write responses but I will expect them.”

“I will remember to respond if you remember not to skip dinner. I won’t be there to pull you away from whatever you’re reading or training with,” Alastair replied with a small smile. Though his voice was strained, it was the most genuine smile he’d seen from his surly cousin. “And don’t forget to practice your throwing knives either. You rely on your sword skills too much.”

Cordelia nodded, forcing a tremulous smile back. “I’ll be as good as you when you come back, Dâdâsh. You’ll see.”

Somewhere upstairs, he sensed his Brothers looking for him.

_Come._

Alastair nodded toward the exit. Cordelia wavered, but with a final look from her brother and a hand of Cortana, she followed him out. As they rushed through the Silent City, he tried to find words of solace for her. As her steps echoed against his soundless ones, he said, _I am a Carstairs no longer, but remember you are not alone._

She looked at him in surprise before her brown eyes, kind and searching like Sona’s and unwavering like Alastair’s, shined. “Thank you.”

For as long as he lived, Brother Zachariah would remember Alastair’s cries when he returned to the cell block minutes later. The anguish, loss, and fear in the tears etched into his mind and the stone walls.

What had this world done to his family?

* * *

Jem’s words stay with Cordelia as she made her way back home. Walking the streets of London, she waited for the world to reflect the upheaval she felt. Her entire life was turned over, and yet the stall Alastair always bought his papers from was still shouting prices and the bakery they liked to buy biscuits from was bustling.

Despite being told she wasn’t, Cordelia felt very alone.

She was quite a ways away from Cornwall Gardens, but she hardly registered it. She walked and thought until the sun was setting. By the time she reached her street she was resolutely not thinking of Scholomance and the quiet that would greet her when she got home.Instead she thought of Cyrus. Her baby brother was half a year old and he’d only have her and Risa now. She'd have to make up for it. And how would she even begin to manage their homes, Alastair had never taught her to run the accounts. Perhaps Matthew would—

“Daisy?”

Cordelia stopped. On her porch, sitting on her front steps, was James. He looked as terrible as she felt.

She blurted out the one question that had been on her mind since the Sanctuary. “Where have you been?”

James winced. “Daisy, I am so sorry, my father told me about Alastair. Are you alright? Can I do anything?”

“Where were you?” She repeated. “After the meeting. You weren't at the Institute.”

_I needed someone. I needed you._ Yet those were words she couldn’t say and words he wouldn't want to hear.

He closed his mouth, opened it, then closed it again.

“Were you with Grace?” she asked.

“No,” James looked down at his hands before back up to her. "Not the entire time, at least."

“Where have you been the last three months?” It surprised her that this was her next question, but Cordelia had ignored his absence after her parents’ death for too long. Today had reminded her that James was her friend and he’d abandoned her. She wouldn't ignore it anymore. “With Grace as well?”

He looked torn, but apparently he respected her just enough to give her the truth. He nodded.

She expected it to her hurt. Instead, there was sharp clarity. A dawning understanding of the childishness that was her love for James. She didn't knew the depths of his heart, only what she hoped was there and the glimmers he offered. How could she love anything but an imagined version of him?

So no, it didn’t hurt as much as she thought it would. Her mother and father were dead, Alastair was being carted off to some tortuous mountain a thousand miles away because of the woman James loved, and her patience and affection for him had run thin.

“But,” James added in what she assumed he expected to be a soothing tone, “I have done nothing to dishonor our marriage, she and I simply spoke of our respective lives.” Was he delusional or thick-headed? “I didn’t learn about Jesse until he’d already been brought back. And I certainly didn’t know about what she would to Alastair.”

“Would you have even told me if you did?” She crossed her arms over her chest, grateful for the anger coursing through her again. “Would you have stopped Grace?”

James rubbed the bracelet on his wrist. That godforsaken bracelet he still wore. “Of course. I would have tried to talk her out of it.”

Tried. “I see.”

“Daisy—”

“Do _not_ call me Daisy,” she seethed. His face turned helpless and sorry.

Everyone said that James and Lucie didn't look alike, but Cordelia disagreed. Anyone who paid attention could see the same set to their jaw, the mirrored furrow of their brows, the same mannerisms.

In that moment, he looked so much like Lucie had in the training room. Cordelia couldn't stand the sight of him.“We’ll be married for another six months and in order to keep up appearances I will alternate between my home and the townhouse. Outside of unavoidable social events, I would appreciate it if I could spend my time alone.”

She walked up the front steps and unlocked the door.

Behind her, James followed. “Cordelia, wait. I know you’re angry at me and you have every right to be. I haven't been the best husband or friend, but please let me make it up to you?”

Grace's knowing stare came to mind. “Good evening, James.” She shut the door behind her without waiting for a response.

* * *

Sitting the dining room table, Cordelia picked at her dinner.

All the other chairs were empty. The head of the table where Baba had always sat was empty. To the right of that was where Mâmân had preferred to eat her meals and it was similarly unoccupied. The most painful was Alastair's vacancy, to the left of the head chair.

Cordelia would sit there until Cyrus began crying again, she'd sit there and wonder how she became the last of her family to sit at a table that had once been happy.

That was an illusion, she reminded herself. She had been the only happy one. Even then, Alastair and her mother carried burdens so she wouldn’t have to.

Well, now it was her turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what exactly happened in the Sanctuary? where was James? why did Grace tell Cordelia everything? some things are hinted at or open to interpretation bc i can only be wrong about so many things come COI
> 
> also this was supposed to be it but i’ve been listening to It’s Quiet Uptown from the Hamilton soundtrack and it’s inspiring me to write another part in this series (Forgiveness, can you imagiiiine?) even if it’s just me screaming into the void about how soft and broken Jordelia will be post-Gracelet.


End file.
